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THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE 


THE  GARDENS  OF 
APHRODITE 

BY 

EDGAR  SALTUS 


Halt  HailTheClub's  All  Here 


Permetl  Club  Book 


PRIVATELY   PRINTED 

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PENNELL    CLUB 

PHILADELPHIA   1920 


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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Reprinted  from  the  edition  of  1920 

First  AMS  EDITION  published  1968 

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AT  the  conclusion  of  a 
war  long  since  forgotten, 
Horace    wreathed    him 
self   with    roses,    helped 
himself  to  falernian,  raised  the  cup 
to    Venus    and    sang,    "Nunc    est 
bibendum" — which  he  had  cribbed 
from  Alcaeus. 

That  night  Cleopatra's  diadem 
had  fallen  and  with  it  her  realm. 
The  fine  clatter  of  both  time  has 
hushed.  Of  it  all  one  negligently 
remembers  that  the  lady  was  a  very 
pretty  woman.  There  was  a  fairer 
one  yet.  There  was  Venus. 

Descended  in  flame  from  the 
depth  of  the  archaic  skies,  adding 
perfumes  and  riddles  to  her  incan 
descent  robe,  trailing  it  from  hill  to 
sea,  enveloping  cities  and  kingdoms 
in  her  fervent  embrace,  burning 
them  with  the  fever  of  her  kisses, 
burning  them  to  such  ashes  that  to 
day  barely  the  memory  of  their 
names  endures,  yet  evolving  mean- 


4  THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE 

while  in  successive  but  always  trans 
parent  avatars,  she  passed  to  her 
high  place  in  Paphos,  where,  from 
her  throne  of  love,  she  ruled  the 
world. 

She  rules  it  still.  Paphos  has 
crumbled.  The  crystal  parapets 
from  which  she  leaned  and  laughed 
are  gone.  Her  temples  the  ages 
have  eaten,  her  altars  are  dust.  But 
though  her  liturgy  has  ceased, 
though  her  rites  are  no  more,  though 
her  worship  has  altered  and  the  sky 
itself  has  changed,  her  spirit  abides 
with  us  tonight  as  potently  as  when 
Horace  raised  that  cup. 

When  Rome  fell,  humanity  be 
came  divided  into  beasts  of  burden 
and  beasts  of  prey.  From  that  fate 
the  fall  of  Hunland  preserved  us. 
Yet,  already  at  the  time,  the  temples 
of  Venus  were  razed,  her  rites  had 
grown  ribald.  But  only  a  little  be 
fore,  when  her  shrines  foamed  with 
the  faithful,  Augustin,  a  young  man 
about  town,  who  afterward  became 
a  saint,  turned  his  back  on  them. 


THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE  5 

"Give  me  chastity,"  he  prayed 
and,  with  true  fervour,  immediately 
added:  "But  not  yet!" 

In  Luxuriopolis,  the  prayer  was 
discordant ;  it  was  not  phenomenal. 
Chastity,  the  ideal  condition  of  the 
ideal  gods,  was  the  cardinal  virtue 
of  the  Pythagoreans.  Moreover, 
though  Vesta  had  faltered  there  were 
vestals  in  Rome.  There  were  there 
priests  of  Osiris,  priestesses  of 
Mithra,  hierophants  of  Pallas,  on  all 
of  whom  chastity  was  imposed.  It 
was  therefore  a  recognised  aberra 
tion.  The  prayer  consequently  was 
familiar.  But  not  its  supplement. 
That  "Not  yet!"  followed  monks  in 
their  cloisters  and  nuns  in  their  cells. 
In  the  bastilles  of  purity  the  petals 
of  the  silver  lilies  shook. 

Augustin  has  been  blamed  for 
that.  It  seems  very  pompous  to 
blame  anybody  for  anything.  Au 
gustin  was  not  then  a  saint.  He  was 
merely  a  novice,  tolerably  rakish  and 
considerably  farceur. 

"To  the  devil  with  thin  women 


6  THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE 

and  the  communion  of  souls!" 
Gautier,  another  young  pietist,  long 
later  exclaimed.  From  behind  the 
centuries  Augustin  was  perhaps  but 
preluding  him.  The  words  differ, 
but  the  prayer  is  the  same.  The 
prayer  then  was  in  the  air,  yet  with 
it  were  gusts  of  hysteria.  In  pre 
cincts  narrow  and  dark  the  end  of 
the  world  was  so  confidently  awaited 
that  chastity  was  regarded  as  a  prep 
aration  for  the  judgment  day.  It 
was  in  these  circumstances  that  Au 
gustin,  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  de 
manded  it.  But  not  yet ! 

Subsequently  he  became  a  saint. 
Perhaps  now  he  is  an  angel.  Mean 
while  his  "Not  yet"  was  repeated 
and  continues  to  be,  not  because  his 
Confessions  are  currently  meditated, 
but  because  Venus  sees  that  it  is. 

That  is  not  the  business,  it  is  the 
sovereign  pleasure  of  the  goddess  of 
whom  it  has  been  idly  said  that  she 
incites  men  to  their  best  manners 
and  worst  passions.  But  why  worst? 
Consider  Othello.  His  passions 


THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE  7 

were  pleasant,  it  was  his  manners 
that  were  detestable.  With  these 
Venus  had  nothing  whatever  to  do. 
Love  transfigures.  Any  other  emo 
tion  is  very  unbecoming.  It  is  with 
love  alone  that  Venus  deals.  When 
first  she  appeared  among  the  daz 
zled  immortals,  she  had  the  graces 
for  handmaids  and  joy  for  page. 
Jealousy  was  absent  from  her  glow 
ing  cortege.  It  always'  has  been. 
The  art  of  loving  people  as  though 
you  hated  them  is  one  of  which  she 
is  unaware. 

Consider  Helen.  As  in  an  al 
legory  of  beauty  which  is  for  all  and 
yet  for  none,  Venus  guided  her  from 
hand  to  hand.  Helen's  little  affairs 
began  before  she  was  out  of  the  nur 
sery.  The  war  that  was  afterward 
fought  for  her  was  the  struggle  of 
the  householder  and  the  burglar. 
Pending  it  and  during  her  earlier 
and  subsequent  adventures,  not  once 
did  jealousy  show  its  head.  The  fact 
is  perhaps  not  very  poignant. 
Helen's  lovers  lived  a  long  time  ago 


8  THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE 

and  probably  never  lived  at  all.  But 
if  vulgarity  may  be  properly  defined 
as  the  behaviour  of  other  people,  it 
becomes  curious  that  gentlefolk  to 
day  should  be  more  vulgar  than 
legendary  scamps.  Besides,  even 
though  the  latter  are  mythical  their 
common  sense  is  not.  La  Roche 
foucauld  very  temperately  remarked 
that  lovers  commonly  cease  to  be 
sensible  when  they  cease  to  be  loved. 
The  remark  was  made  at  a  later  and 
a  viler  day.  It  would  have  had  no 
meaning  in  these  serener  years.  In 
what  the  fates  and  the  fathers  have 
left  us  of  antiquity  there  are  rivalries 
and  plenty  of  them;  there  is  blood, 
all  you  like,  seas  of  it,  oceans !  There 
is  a  ribbon  of  crime  so  long,  so 
varied  and  so  delectable  that  it  makes 
your  hair  curl.  But  of  jealousy,  not 
a  trace.  The  monstrous  birth  of 
wedded  shame  and  spite  had  no 
place  then  in  the  gardens  of  Aphro 
dite.  Nor  has  it  today.  In  any  real 
love  there  is  room  for  other  loves. 
It  is  the  heart  of  them  all.  Every 


THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE  9 

true  lover  has  the  attitude — however 
much  he  may  lack  the  wit — of 
Verlaine. 

Mets  ton  front  sur  mon  front  et  ta  main 

dans  ma  main, 
Et  fais-moi  des  serments  que  tu  rompras 

demain. 

The  attitude  may  seem  cynical.  It 
is  the  serenity  of  a  sage  preaching 
gaiety  and  indulgence  for  the  acci 
dents  which  we  cannot  avoid. 

Si  Ton  vous  a  trahi,  ce  n'est  pas  la 
trahison  qui  importe,  c'est  le  par 
don.  .  .  .  Mais  si  la  trahison  n'a  pas 
accrue  la  simplicite,  la  confiance  plus 
haute,  Tetendue  de  Tamour,  on  vous  a 
trahi  bien  inutilement,  et  vous  pouvez 
vous  dire  qu'il  n'est  rien  arrive. 

Another  view  and  perhaps  supe 
rior.  It  is  Maeterlinck's.  But  poets 
are  rarely  in  unison.  It  is  one  of 
their  charms.  On  the  subject  of  love 
their  dissonances  are  notable.  They 
are  various  and  tortured  as  the  lays 
in  which  they  float.  For  after  all, 
to  say,  as  Chamfort  did,  that  love  is 
the  contact  of  two  epiderms  sounds 


10  THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE 

austere.  To  call  it,  as  Balzac  did, 
the  poetry  of  the  senses,  sounds 
prosy.  To  say  that  it  is  to  be  two 
and  yet  but  one  seems  calculating. 
To  describe  it  as  a  privilege  mutu 
ally  bestowed  by  two  people  for  their 
common  discomfort  sounds  better. 
To  declare  that  it  consists  in  not 
being  bored  by  the  party  of  the  sec 
ond  part  sounds  best.  But  not  exact. 
None  of  these  definitions  is  exact, 
yet  all  have  their  value.  With  en 
tire  clarity  they  tell  what  love  is  not. 
That  is  very  helpful.  The  moment 
we  know  what  a  thing  is  not,  we  can 
begin  to  conjecture  what  it  may  be. 
That  process  has  enabled  practi 
tioners  to  diagnose  love  as  a  patho 
logical  condition  superinduced  by  a 
fermentation  of  the  molecules  of  the 
imagination.  Less  technically,  love 
is  a  state  of  febrility.  It  is  a  fever 
that  ends  with  a  yawn. 

In  support  of  the  diagnosis,  cita 
tions  follow;  primarily  one  from 
Schopenhauer,  whom  it  is  always  a 
pleasure  to  quote,  particularly  be- 


THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE  11 

cause,  by  his  last  will  and  testament, 
he  gave,  devised  and  bequeathed  to 
Germany  all  the  contempt  of  what 
ever  kind,  nature  or  description,  and 
wheresoever  situated,  of  which  he 
died  seized  and  possessed. 

Freely  rendered,  this  is  what  the 
nobleman  said : 

Love  is  the  Great  Mother  planning  the 
creation  of  another  being,  and  the  precise 
instant  in  which  that  being's  future  ex 
istence  becomes  possible  is  the  very 
moment  when  two  young  people  begin  to 
fancy  each  other.  The  seriousness  with 
which  they  consider  one  another  is  due  to 
their  unconscious  meditation  concerning 
the  child  which  they  may  create.  For  in 
its  essence,  love  is  always  and  everywhere 
the  same — a  reverie  on  the  next  genera 
tion. 

To  induce  the  meditation,  Nature  fevers 
the  individual  with  an  insane  idea  of  hap 
piness,  and  with  the  illusion  that  union 
with  some  one  person  will  procure  it.  Yet 
when  her  object  is  achieved,  disenchant 
ment  ensues.  The  illusion  that  gulled  you 
has  vanished. 

But,  meanwhile,  such  may  be  the 
potency  of  it,  such  too  its  witchery  and 


12  THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE 

enthralment  that,  if  need  be,  all  the  bar 
riers  of  the  world  are  burned  away.  Once 
Venus  has  her  prey  by  the  throat,  laws, 
obstacles,  conventions  exist  no  longer. 
Precepts  and  homilies  are  as  incense 
poured  on  flames.  There  is  only  madness 
— until  the  great  alienist  Time  appears, 
until  the  insanity  abates,  until  the  fever 
passes,  and  the  individual  re-becomes 
normal. 

In  that  condition  a  philosopher  may  re 
main,  but  not  the  ordinary  mortal.  Fever 
returns  to  the  flesh  as  the  leaf  returns  to 
the  tree.  Thereat  the  Carnival  begins  da 
capo.  Your  conscience  may  rebel.  But 
what  are  your  interests  to  Nature's?  Hers 
alone  are  supreme.  She  snuffs  yours  out 
like  a  candle. 

Schopenhauer  expressed  himself 
admirably,  which  no  other  German 
has,  except  Heine,  who  was  French. 
But  Muhammad  knew  also  how  to 
express  himself.  So,  too,  did  Con 
fucius.  Both  went  straight  to  the 
point. 

Confucius  said  that  a  gentleman's 
home  should  be  well  supplied  with 
females.  Muhammad  added  that  a 
gentleman  could  not  have  too  many 


THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE  13 

either  here  or  hereafter.  In  the  lat 
ter  resort  he  promised  the  faithful  a 
fresh  houri  every  day. 

Whatever  a  houri  may  be,  a  fresh 
one  every  day  seems  either  excessive 
or  else  suitable  only  to  the  Hercules' 
of  love.  But  no  doubt  the  faithful 
could  diet  if  they  liked.  In  any 
event,  Schopenhauer,  Confucius 
and  Muhammad  agreed  that  it  is  not 
natural  for  man  to  cleave  to  one  dish. 
If  I  interpret  them  correctly,  they 
saw  that  when  the  fever  abates, 
yawns  will  supervene  unless  the 
menu  is  varied. 

Nowadays  most  men  feel  that  way 
about  it,  even  though  they  omit  to 
say  so.  Whatever  women  may  think, 
usually  they  profess  the  opposite. 
But  then  a  man  means  the  things  he 
does  not  say  and  a  woman  says  the 
things  she  does  not*  mean.  That  is 
only  right.  The  world  could  hardly 
be  madder  than  it  is  and  yet  if  every 
body  told  the  truth  it  would  be. 

But  the  problem  presents  another 
angle.  Whatever  a  woman  may  be 


14  THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE 

at  twenty,  at  any  age  any  man,  who 
is  a  man,  is  a  potential  scoundrel. 
The  eyes  of  the  world,  official  duties, 
business  interests,  other  deterrents 
equally  noble  may  restrain,  but  at 
heart  every  man  is  Don  Juan. 

Don  Juan  fathered  the  Wander 
ing  Jew.  He  assisted  at  the  birth  of 
Faust.  He  antedates  Mammon. 
Protean,  indefinite,  eternal,  he  is  the 
oldest  and  the  youngest  being  on 
earth.  Born  in  the  Garden  of  Kama, 
his  avatars  are  as  many  as  Vishnu's, 
his  masks  as  multiple  as  his  amours. 

Tirso  de  Molina,  a  Spanish 
writer,  gave  him  his  present  style 
and  title,  but  not  his  charm.  Mozart 
supplied  that.  In  Spain  he  was 
merely  the  hidalgo,  though  with  an 
attitude  that  faintly  mimicked  the 
Cid.  Invited  to  sup  with  the  dead, 
he  outfaced  the  damned.  Otherwise, 
that  is  in  pursuit  of  his  vocation,  he 
was  still  very  primitive.  The  art  of 
gallantry,  its  lures,  beguilements, 
temptations,  he  was  as  yet  too  un 
schooled  to  observe.  His  method 


THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE  15 

was  the  frank  simplicity  of  the  faun. 

Subsequently,  when  Moliere  took 
him  in  hand,  he  became  a  bandit  of 
love,  not  a  bandit  after  the  manner 
of  the  Cid,  who  was  the  emperor  of 
bandits,  but  a  parlour  highwayman 
in  dirty  white  gloves. 

Mozart,  in  his  opera  of  operas, 
presented  him  properly.  From  that 
bath  of  champagne  —  and  what 
champagne !  —  the  champagne  of 
music  that  not  only  bubbles  but 
laughs!  —  the  legendary  type 
emerged,  not  purified — heaven  for 
bid! — but  delightful. 

Here  enters  Casanova.  Up  stage, 
saluting  him,  is  Don  Juan's  parody, 
Corneille's  Matamore. 

Mille  mouraient  par  jour  a  force  de 
nVaimer! 

J'avais  des  rendezvous  de  toutes  les  prin 
cesses. 

Les  reines  a  1'envi  mendiaient  mes  car 
esses. 

Celle  d'Ethopie  et  celle  de  Japon 

Dans  leurs  soupirs  d'amour  ne  melaient 
que  mon  nom. 


16  THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE 

De    passion    pour    moi    deux    sultanes 

tremblerent; 
Deux    autres    pour    me    voir    du    serail 

s'echapperent. 
J'en  fus  mal  quelque  temps  avec  le  Grand 

Seigneur. 

In  the  ballroom  of  Europe  that 
Venice  was,  Casanova,  at  the  age  of 
fifteen — the  age  of  Cherubino — ef 
fected  his  debut  with  a  scandal.  To 
scandalise  Venice  was  enormous. 
Orientally  corrupt,  byzantinely  fair, 
in  her  porphyry  palaces  and  liquid 
streets  masterpieces  and  license  were 
at  home.  The  impossible  achieved, 
he  multiplied  it.  Throughout  the 
eighteenth-century  metropoles  of 
pleasure,  in  the  lovely  days  when 
love  was  life,  his  existence  became  a 
spangle  of  continuous  caresses.  No 
man  perhaps  has  dreamed  as  that 
man  lived.  From  palace  to  hovel  he 
passed,  from  inns  to  convents,  from 
highways  to  gardens,  from  prison  to 
court,  charming  and  winning  three 
thousand  women,  abbesses  and  bal 
let  girls,  princesses  and  demoiselles, 


THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE  17 

the  married,  the  single,  the  high  and 
the  low,  alluring  every  one  of  them 
through  the  exercise  of  his  secret — 
the  secret  of  not  having  any  which 
is  the  greatest  of  all — covered  mean 
while  not  only  with  the  heady  per 
fumes  of  his  myriad  amours,  but  with 
honours  from  pope  and  kings,  and, 
quite  lavishly,  concluding  his  unex 
ampled  career  as  librarian  to  a 
princelet  who  had  no  library. 
Moralists  have  declaimed  against 
him  and,  I  am  sure,  very  justly. 
Casanova  was  not  a  moral  person. 
He  was  merely  delightful. 

Nowadays  men  have  no  time  to  be 
delightful.  Formerly  they  had  time 
for  nothing  else.  Richelieu  made 
up  to  three  generations  of  women 
and  affiche'd  his  last  mistress  at 
eighty-five.  Men  like  he  and 
Casanova  were  the  giants  of  gallan 
try.  Today  the  race  is  extinct.  To 
day  gallantry  is  encounterable  only 
in  old  books  that  nobody  reads  any 
more.  That  is  quite  as  it  should  be. 
Besides,  the  pomps  of  matrimony  re- 


18  THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE 

main.  Concerning  them  it  may  be 
profitable  to  consult  Rabelais  and 
meditate  Panurge. 

P  a  n  u  r  g  e  contemplated  mat 
rimony,  but,  uncertain  of  its  charms 
that  might  be  perils,  he  sought  ad 
vice.  He  sought  it  from  the  wise, 
from  the  learned,  from  the  mad, 
from  witches,  soothsayers,  cards  and 
dice.  It  was  a  belfry  that  instructed 
him,  or  no,  it  was  the  bottle.  But 
meanwhile  in  staggering,  blinded 
and  dizzy,  from  the  orgie  of  oracles 
and  saloperie  which  his  questions 
had  provoked,  he  heard  the  chimes 
of  fatidic  bells. 

Marie-toy,  marie-toy,  marie,  marie !  Si 
tu  te  maries,  marie,  marie,  tres  bien  t'en 
trouveras,  veras,  veras,  marie,  marie! 

There  were  the  bells  urging,  in 
citing  him  to  marry.  The  next  mo 
ment  they  changed  their  tune. 

Marie  point,  marie  point,  point,  point, 
point!  Si  tu  te  maries,  marie,  marie,  tu 
t'en  repentiras,  tiras,  tiras! 

Confused  by  the  conflicting  ex- 


THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE  19 

hortations,  Panurge  behaved  very 
sensibly.  He  got  drunk. 

There  are  topics  about  which 
words  hover  like  enchanted  bees. 
They  smell  good.  Getting  drunk  is 
not  one  of  them,  or  getting  married 
either,  but  love  is.  It  is  lilian.  Un 
fortunately,  lilies  that  fester  smell 
worse  than  weeds.  Apart  from 
mythology  and  even  there  apart 
from  the  Apuleian  account  of 
Cupid  and  Psyche,  the  history  of 
love  does  not  contain  a  single  story 
in  which  melancholy  does  not  sit  and 
brood.  It  does  not  contain  one  story 
that  can  make  you  much  in  love  with 
love.  As  pages  turn  and  faces 
emerge,  always  when  they  do  not 
drip  with  tears  they  reek  with  blood. 
Always  you  catch  an  echo  of  the  re 
frain;  Sono  TAmore,  difida  di  me. 

In  another  tongue,  Sappho  heard 
it.  She  drowned  herself.  Hero 
heard  it.  She  also  drowned  herself. 
Then  upward  on  the  winding  stair 
of  dream  it  passed  from  realm  to 
realm.  As  it  sounded  at  Lesbos  and 


20     THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE. 

the  Hellespont,  so  did  it  sound  at 
Joyeuse  Garde,  at  Tintagel  and 
Astolat. 

There  was  Guinevere,  daughter 
of  Leodigrance,  wife  of  Arthur 
Pendragon.  There,  too,  was  Sir 
Launcelot  du  Lake  whom  she  had  in 
favour.  "And  of  a  truth/'  the  old  tale 
tells,  "he  loved  the  queen  above  all 
other  dames  and  damsels  all  his 
life."  Yes,  and  with  a  love  that 
killed  her,  killed  the  king,  killed 
Elaine,  killed  Sir  Launcelot  du 
Lake. 

There  was  Yseult  to  whom  Tris 
tram  harped  The  Lay  of  Love  that 
dieth  not  so  tellingly  that  when  for 
love  of  her  he  died,  she  sobbed  her 
self  to  sleep.  "Neither  did  they  dis 
turb  more/'  the  old  tale  tells,  "for 
they  knew  her  slumber  was  death- 
fast/' 

There  was  Etzel's  wife,  Kriem- 
held  of  Burgundy  who  loved  the 
faultless  Siegfried  and  when  he  was 
slain  died  also. 

"Then,"  says  the  historian,  "alone 


THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE  21 

at  the  board  King  Etzel  sat  and 
wept.  He  touched  not  of  the  mead- 
horn,  sorrow  was  his  meat,  tears  had 
he  £or  drink.  So  Pain  dogs  Pleas 
ure's  steps.  Ended  was  the  feast." 

There  were  Francesca  and  Paolo, 
who  read  together  of  Launcelot  and 
Guinevere.  "Several  times  during 
the  reading,"  the  girl  confided  to 
Dante,  "our  eyes  met  and  we 
blushed.  Yet  when  we  learned  how 
that  tender  lover  kissed  the  mouth 
he  loved,  he  who  never  more  shall 
be  separated  from  me  tremblingly 
kissed  my  own.  Quel  giorno  piu 
non  vi  leggemmo  avante — we  read 
no  more  that  day."  No,  nor  on  any 
other.  The  slaughter  that  followed 
then  is  choked  with  mystery,  with 
rime  sparse  and  the  dust  of  years. 

There  were  Canace  and  Macare, 
whom  Lydgate  in  the  Temple  of 
Glass  praised  as  foremost  among 
the  lovers  of  the  world.  Their  story 
had  preceded  them.  It  had  been 
told  in  Rome,  told  in  Athens,  told 
in  Babylon  long  before.  The  story 


22  THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE 

and  the  horror  of  it  has  been  retold 
since  time  began. 

There  was  the  tragedy  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet  which  Luigi  da  Porto  got 
at  the  baths  of  Caldiero  from  a  Ver 
onese  gossip.  There  is  the  deeper 
tragedy  of  Desdemona  which 
Cinthio  revealed.  Gounod  embroid 
ered  for  the  one  and  Verdi  for  the 
other  the  echo  of  that  refrain,  the 
echo  of  its  menace,  its  haunting 
threat  of  mud,  of  blood  and  tears. 

Sono  PAmore,  difida  di  me!  In 
the  lovely  land  of  love  there  are 
fresher  measures,  other  songs,  songs 
strung  with  caresses,  hymns  per 
fumed  with  kisses,  pure  as  prayer. 
But  always  the  refrain  follows  after. 
It  does  not  make  you  much  in  love 
with  love.  Nothing  can  except  the 
absence  of  it.  It  is  only  in  fairyland 
and  the  first  fevers  that  love  is  a 
lovely  thing. 

There  is  a  reason  for  all  things, 
there  is  one  for  that.  The  reason  is 
an  illusion  with  which  ignorance 
has  enveloped  us.  The  majority  of 


THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE  23 

us  believe  that  we  are  free  to  do  as 
we  wish  and,  subject  to  the  limita 
tions  of  place  and  circumstance,  so 
we  are,  apparently  that  is,  and  in  the 
appearance  is  the  illusion.  The  de 
lusion  comes  from  the  pulp  behind 
the  forehead  in  which  there  are  num 
berless  little  cells  which,  through  as 
many  currents,  create  our  wants  and 
with  them  our  tastes,  good  or  bad, 
our  temptations,  our  humours  and 
even  the  lack  of  them. 

Most  of  us  know  what  we  want. 
What  most  of  us  do  not  know  is  why 
we  want  what  we  do  want.  It  is  the 
cells  and  currents  that  prompt  us.  It 
is  they  who  force  their  will  upon  us, 
not  we  who  force  our  will  on  them. 
The  source  of  any  action  is  not  men 
tal,  it  is  temperamental.  Most  of  us 
think  otherwise  and  there  is  the  illu 
sion.  There,  too,  is  the  explanation 
of  every  affaire  du  coeur. 

The  cells  impress  the  individual 
with  the  conviction  that  that  man,  or 
that  girl,  is  the  one  man  or  the  one 
girl  for  him,  or  for  her.  When  sim- 


24  THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE 

ilar  cells  similarly  actuate  the  other 
party,  you  get  cards  for  the  wedding. 
Later  you  may  get  curious  about  the 
divorce.  For  the  cells  that  cause  two 
hearts  to  beat  as  one,  do  not  guar 
antee  a  continuous  performance. 
Besides,  a  continuous  performance 
may  be  very  fatiguing.  The  impolite 
yawn  at  it  and  the  well-bred  swear. 

In  home  circles,  the  latter  pro 
ceeding  is  much  the  nicer.  Swear 
ing,  cursing  and  stamping  about  is 
always  genteel  and  sometimes  ir 
resistible.  Sardou  with  what — for 
him — was  decent  psychology,  made 
Theodora  cry  at  her  young  man: 
"You  insult  me !  You  love  me  still." 

If  the  jeune  premier,  instead  of 
giving  the  lady  a  piece  of  such  mind 
as  he  possessed,  had  yawned  at  her, 
never  in  the  world  could  she  have 
deduced  the  rosy  belief  that  she  was 
still  the  one  and  only.  Unassisted 
by  any  psychology  however  am 
ateur,  she  would  have  known  that 
the  brute  was  sick  of  her.  But,  in 
the  boudoir,  harsh  words  are  so 


THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE  25 

aphrodisaic  that  after  a  lady  and  her 
gentleman  have  fought  like  the  very 
devil,  as  often  as  not  they  fall  on 
each  other's  neck.  For  true  it  is,  has 
been  and  probably  ever  will  be,  that 
it  is  only  when  lovers  cease  to 
quarrel  that  they  are  ceasing  to  love. 
The  more  they  fight  the  livelier  it 
gets,  and  the  more  they  yawn  the 
peacefuller  it  becomes.  That  is 
quite  as  it  should  be,  were  it  not  that 
lovers  weary  even  of  themselves, 
even  of  the  best,  even  of  squabbling 
and  making  up,  even  of  the  peace- 
table  and  its  relaxing  joys. 

With  all  of  which  Venus  has  noth 
ing  whatever  to  do.  Her  sovereign 
pleasure  consists  in  stirring  the 
brain-cells,  in  fermenting  the  mol 
ecules  of  the  imagination,  in  creat 
ing  the  delicate  fever  of  love.  As 
the  patient's  temperature  rises,  she 
laughs:  in  his  delirium  she  rejoices. 
But,  before  it  can  pass,  she  has  gone. 
The  stricken  and  the  bereft  accuse 
and  upbraid  her.  These  she  does  not 
hear.  The  grotesque  or  merely  ter- 


26     THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE 

rific  passions  which  she  has  un 
leashed  cannot  mount  to  where  she 
is.  It  has  been  a  common  mistake 
of  astronomers  to  picture  her  incit 
ing  the  tragedies  of  love,  gloating 
over  those  she  has  caused.  The  de 
ceptive  hallucinations  of  the  de 
lirium — hallucinations  so  deceptive 
that  they  dupe  the  patient  into  mis 
taking  for  his  own  happiness  that 
which  solely  concerns  the  next  gen 
eration — these  vagaries  are  born  of 
her  spells.  In  them  she  rejoices. 
But  what  may  ensue  when  the  crisis 
is  passed,  concerns  her  not  at  all. 
Indifferently  she  turns  her  sphere  of 
stars. 

What  the  original  sin  may  have 
been  I  do  not  know,  but  I  fancy  that 
it  consisted  in  making  unoriginal 
remarks.  To  say  that  it  is  a  fine  day 
when  the  fact  is  patent,  constitutes 
one  of  those  crimes  which,  to  my 
deep  regret,  the  law  cannot  reach. 
To  tell  of  the  gulleries  of  the  goddess 
is  another.  To  denounce  her  as  the 
perturber  of  the  world,  the  flesh  and 


THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE     27 

the  devil  is  a  banality  that  has  been 
running  about  the  bookshelves  ever 
since  books  were  shelved  and  long 
before.  That  Venus  is  subtle  and 
cruel  is  obvious.  In  spite  of  which 
and  more,  too,  at  the  possibility  of 
any  possible  febrifuge  for  the  fever 
which  she  induces,  down  at  us, 
through  the  centuries  comes  the 
caveat,  "Not  yet." 

The  spells  she  throws  summon 
shame  in  every  shape.  They  turn 
lovers  into  skeletons  at  the  feast,  and 
more  horribly  still  into  detectives  in 
the  cupboard.  There  is  no  form  of 
felony  that  they  omit  to  fashion.  We 
all  know  it.  But  though  it  were  in 
the  power  of  man  to  abolish  her 
spells  as  thoroughly  as  the  barba 
rians  demolished  her  shrines,  still  we 
would  cry  "Not  yet!" 

Life  is  packed  with  delights — 
which  the  majority  of  us  never  en 
joy.  The  world  is  full  of  charming 
people — whom  few  of  us  ever  meet. 
There  are  amusements  for  the 
simple,  austerities  for  the  sage.  But 


28     THE  GARDENS  OF  APHRODITE 

of  all  the  gifts  the  gods  can  give  or 
take,  the  loveliness  of  love  is  still  so 
lovely  that  until  the  bubble  blown  by 
Brahm  shall  break,  until  the  heavens 
shall  fold  and  the  universe  collapse, 
still  will  ascend  that  cry  "Not  yet!" 


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Gardens  of  Aphrodite. 


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